She giggles, and my heart tightens again. Making her happy has been my job for years.
When we got together, no one was more shocked than me. I always found her attractive, with her hot body and witty personality. Never did I think she would want me. Even now, when she looks at me, I wonder if she’s considering who she could have had.
Back then, Bex was unravelling after another Ben fiasco. She’d gotten wasted, tossed from a club, then collapsed. At the hospital, they’d pumped her stomach. Amy was wrecked. I held her as she cried.
“I don’t think she’s going to survive this,” she said. “He’s ripped her heart out.”
“She’ll be all right,” I told her, kissing her nose. “It’s you I’m worried about. You’re not her keeper.” We’d both stilled, unsurewhat to do next. Then she kissed me, hard, pushing me back on the waiting room couch.
A throat cleared; we looked up at an unimpressed doctor. “There’s a time and a place,” he said, “this isn’t it.” He stalked off. We stared at each other, flushed, a little ashamed, a lot turned on.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’ve wanted to do that forever.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you, but do it again.” She smiled from underneath her dark lashes. “Anytime.”
That was almost twenty years ago, and we’ve been together ever since. That night, she became my lover, my partner, and my best friend. We’ve faced every issue together. I’ve never doubted she was right for me. Until now. Until this difference in opinion on how far we should go to create a family.
I can only pray that this one shot she’s given us works. I don’t have a plan for the version of us where it doesn’t.
Hope is the only plan I’ve got left.
Chapter thirteen
Amy
July 2019
We sit in Dr. Hughes’s office awaiting the outcome of our tests. I twist my hands together nervously; my palms slick with sweat. Terry sits beside me, his hands kneading at his jeans. We haven’t spoken since we arrived.
Today is D-day. Today, we find out if one of us is at fault for our inability to have a family or if the original diagnosis of unexplained infertility will remain. I’ve rehearsed both versions of the conversation in my head. I hate them equally.
The door swings open, and our doctor walks in and drops into the chair opposite us. “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Trodden. It’s lovely to see you both again.” He gives us a warm smile. “As you know, you’re both here to discuss your test results and the treatment plan moving forward.” We nod. “Mr. Trodden, I’m happy to tell you that we’ve found no issues with your sample.Your sperm is abundant and of good quality, especially for a man your age.”
Terry sits straighter in the chair, puffing his chest out with pride. His mouth splits into a wide grin. I half expect him to jump up and start happy dancing around the room. The leather chair hisses beneath him. I pray for mine to swallow me whole.
“You hear that, Amz?” he says with a chuckle. “My swimmers are good.” He raises his hand to high-five me before catching my eye. The blood drains from his face at my expression. I feel sick. “I’m sorry,” he mutters and settles back in his chair.
“If I may continue, Mr. Trodden,” the doctor asks, and my errant husband mumbles an apology. “Mrs. Trodden.”
“Amy,” I correct him.
“Amy,” he says, “unfortunately your tests have shown that your Anti-Mullerian Hormone, AMH, is below normal levels. What this means is you have fewer eggs on average in your ovaries than other women your age. This tells us your reproductive window may be closing. You have fewer eggs in reserve, as it were.” Terry leans across and picks up my hand, holding it tight. His thumb draws slow circles; it feels like an apology and a plea. Neither are comforting.
“Does this mean Amy can’t conceive?” he asks.
The doctor shakes his head. “Not at all. It means that time is of the essence, and the fact you’ve not conceived naturally convinces me IVF is the best option moving forward, to give you both the best chance of having your baby.” He smiles kindly. “Is there anything you would like to ask?”
“When do we start?” I focus on a scuff on the floor. If he smiles again, I may cry.
Deep down, I always knew the issue was mine.
A memory flashes before my eyes. The gray clinic hallway, the hum of the fluorescent lights, Bex’s fingers laced throughmine while the nurse ticked boxes on a form. Sixteen, terrified, pregnant with the baby I couldn’t care for. I’ve never told Terry.
Sometimes I wonder who they would’ve been. On the darker nights, I consider whether this situation is karma for the past. When I allow myself to return to that moment too often, I’m certain it is.
“When are you due your next period?” the doctor asks, snapping me from my cruel thoughts.
“In two weeks,” I respond.
